


fit for purpose

by Windian



Category: Tales of Berseria
Genre: Gen, Teresa's such a terrible person and I love her, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 23:44:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12069399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: "Don't give them names. When you give something a name, you make it more human. And malakhim are not human. They're tools," Lord Artorius had told you.





	fit for purpose

Hellawes suits you.

The fish markets smell of the the little apartment above the fishmonger in Loegres, where you'd spent the first six uncomplicated years of your life. The tangled family politics of the Dragonia family, who'd taken you in after mother's death, had yet to dig their claws into you. Life had been simple in that small one-room flat. You'd been happy, you think.

The other consuls had turned their nose up at the Hellawes job. It was too cold, too remote, and the whole place stunk of fish. You'd initially taken the position on the understanding with Lord Artorius that your baby brother, Oscar, would be kept away from the more dangerous assignments he liked to stick his nose into. But the more time you spend in Hellawes, the more you like it. Not just the fish markets, but the crisp chill of the air, the untrodden endless snow fields past the city gates.

“Teresa would be the only one mad enough to go up there,” your fellow exorcists had muttered. “Cold-hearted bitch.”

 

“Number Two, come now. You'll be left behind.”

Initially obedient, Number Two had picked up a bad trait of _wandering_. You tolerated his little trips to the library, even if you were baffled what a printed page would mean to a _malak_ of all creatures.

The city, however, was another matter.

Number One sticks obediently by your side. The other malak, however, lingers in the market by a stall full of curios, eyes fixed on ship in a bottle.

You heave a sigh. “Number Two--” you say. You advance towards him, heels crushing compressed snow, ready to take him by the arm if needs be. Just as you reach out, his eyes snap away.

A warm, throaty chuckle.

“Is the young man your brother? Reminds me of my grandson-- left to his own devices, he ends up in a world of his own.”

The old woman tending the stall has a broad, kind face. “If you like the ship so much, child, you can take it. One of the masts broke when my grandson carried it over. It won't sell for anything now.”

Number Two stares at his shoes, unable to meet the old woman's eye. “Um.”

“A shy one, isn't he?”

You smile, as patiently as you can. “He's a malak, ma'am. And I'm afraid your gift would be wasted on him.”

But if anything, the woman admires Number Two even more curiously. “A malak, are you? I've never spoken to a malak. Do you have a name?”

The malak stares harder at his shoes.

“We call him Number Two,” you tell the woman, shortly. “And this here is Number One.”

Number One stares onwards, without blinking.

The woman's smile fades. “Seems kind of a shame.”

Lord Artorius had told you: _Don't give them names. When you give something a name, you make it more human. And malakhim are not human. They're tools._

And honestly, what does the woman want you to do? Treat the creature as some do, as a pet? Call him _Goldie,_ or some such nonsense? Malakhim are the swords exorcists wield; you would not wield a _pet_.

“We should be off,” you say. “Come now, Number Two. Enough dawdling.”

The malak still hovers, distracted by the stupid trinket.

“ _Now,_ ” you say.

“He can still have it, if he'd like,” the old woman offers. She's no longer smiling.

“He doesn’t need it,” you snap, grabbing Number Two by the wrist. His gaze snaps away from the bottle. For a second, as though a mirage, you think you can see a flash of some emotion pass through his eyes. Your heart drops to your stomach as his mouth twists; for a brief moment, you think he might wrench his arm away from you. But then the mirage fades: Number Two's eyes are as glassy and lifeless as ever.

“Yes Ma'am,” the malak says, as he falls into step behind you.

 

In your years in Loegres as a junior praetor, the rallies had been a small but persistently annoying problem. What had started with a dozen people had grown to an entire contingency. On market days, they came out in full force, collared with signs strung around their necks:

MALAKHIM ARE NOT SLAVES

The worst part was that they couldn't be dispersed from the market for disruptive behaviour. Instead, they arranged themselves in a circle by the fountain, linked by chains, unspeaking, as silently and still as the malakhim whose liberation they demanded.

“Ignore them,” Loegres' consul, Victarion, had said, when you're brought the issue to his desk. He'd flipped aimlessly through his paperwork. “They're no more than a curiosity. Give it another season for people to get bored, and no-one will even notice them anymore. And attention-seekers get bored without any attention.”

True to Victarion's word, by the time summer had come and gone, no one paid the protesters any notice. No longer stopping to stare, people went about their business. The protesters might as well have been part of the fountain itself; invisible as the malakhim had been before the Scarlet Night. Still, it made something tighten in your throat to see them; baking themselves day after day in the midday sun, their steely, condemning eyes.

Two seasons after that, they vanished. One day, on market day, they simply weren't there. But all the same, the market folk and shoppers gave the fountain a wide bearth. Children didn't play on the steps and couples didn't loiter. The fountain stayed empty, as though although the protesters had departed, the chains were still there.

 

“Oscar, you idiot!”

You crumple your brother's letter to a ball in your fist. All you'd done to get Oscar a safe, comfortable position, and he gives the job away? _Sister, I'll be stationed for the next three seasons at Titania,_ Oscar had written. You'd taken crap jobs for months, and _still_ , Oscar managed to wind up at the most dangerous place on the continent? The chivalrous, heroic _fool_ \--

“Madam Teresa?”

You whirl about to find Number Two stood cautiously in the doorway to the sitting room. Your heart is in your throat. “You--” _you scared me_. You swallow the unspoken words down, taking a breath to steady yourself. Still, there's a tremor in your chilly voice as you ask, “Number Two, is there something you need?”

He shakes his head. “You sounded upset.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. “I'm fine.” How strange, to have to reassure a malak. It makes you smile. “You were worried?”

Number Two struggles with this concept, his mouth contorting as he tastes it in his mouth: “Worried... I...”

There had been a moment. On the day when Artorius had presented you with your two malakhim. Your first assignment, and not one malakhim, but _two_ . Your heart had been bursting to the seams with pride, and if only the the Master and Mistress of the house could see you _now,_ the unwanted bastard-maid, ordained as praetor consulate.

Artorius had brought the two malakhim out, and your eye had immediately gone to the malak you'd later name Number Two. Something about the hair, and the colour of his eyes, the shape of his face---

The Master had, grudgingly, introduced you to your half-sibling. Standing straight in your uncomfortably starched new linen, you fought the impulse not to scratch the spot behind your knee. “Oscar, this is the new member of our household, Teresa. She's just lost her mother, so please be kind to her.”

Perhaps Artorius had seen something on your face. _They are tools_ , he'd reminded you. They only wore the semblance of human flesh.

And yet...

“You're sweet to be concerned for me,” you say. You put a hand on the malak's head, and find the hair so soft you tangle your fingers in it.

Number Two gazes up at you. “Sweet?”

You hum in response. “You know, Oscar had hair just like you as a boy. There was always this _one_ piece-- no matter what I did, I could never get it to lay flat.”

You lead the boy over to the chaise lounge and bid him to sit. “Wait here a moment,” you tell him, a smile in your voice as you find out the hairbrush you keep in your drawer.

You squeeze in behind him, and from behind he could _be_ Oscar, all the way down to the promise of ringlets in his hair. Laying firm even strokes, you tell him, “Oscar loved it when I brushed his hair. He'd never want me to stop. Sometimes, he'd try to do mine, except he was so impulsive, he'd end up pulling.” You smile against the memory. Even then, you couldn't be mad. You'd forgive your baby brother anything.

You hum as you tease out the knots in the boy's hair. He stays as still as Oscar would. Always moving, always restless, he wouldn't move a muscle under your touch.

Indulgently, you press your face forward to the crown of the boy's hair to breathe in the smell of him. “Does it feel nice, Oscar?”

“Who's Oscar?” the malak says. Number Two turns to look at you, and the eyes that gaze, unblinking, are so soulless that you flinch back.

Colour rises high on your cheekbones: you feel terribly exposed. “T-That's none of your business, Number Two,” you stumble. Saying the malak's name steadies you. He's not a human. _It's_ not a human. Malakhim are tools.

“Get out of here! I can't stand to look at you. And from now on, don't come in unless I call for you.”

Number Two runs from the room. You sink back down on the chaise lounge, feeling suddenly exhausted.

You think of invisible chains, on the fountain in Loegres.

The malak made a poor replacement for your brother, anyway. He hadn't even smelled right.

 


End file.
